


Out of the Mouth

by stardust_made



Series: The Christmas Series [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, First Time, M/M, Romance, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-29
Updated: 2011-12-29
Packaged: 2017-10-28 10:36:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/306984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardust_made/pseuds/stardust_made
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the prompt "Could I ask for a Mystrade Christmas with Lestrade somehow (maybe by pure chance, or by saying something totally unrelated) helping Mycroft to prevent a major international disaster? So they can both celebrate? Bonus if it's a first time fic, as well:-))"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Out of the Mouth

  
Mycroft felt guilty. And given the nature of his work that was saying rather a lot.

He felt annoyed—with his job, with himself and, irrationally, with Greg, too, for being at the root of Mycroft’s guilt. He also felt disappointed. Frustrated. And these were just his rough feelings; if he took a moment to break them down to their nuances, he’d have material for an entire year’ worth of psychotherapy.

He could writhe internally all he wanted, but in practical terms nothing could be done. New Year’s Eve or not, it was a matter of emergency to work out that Chinese puzzle. (He really wished it was what it sounded like.) There weren’t lives at stake, not yet. But the security of a particular Embassy had been compromised in the most appalling and mystifying manner. It was a new security system that guarded some very dangerous secrets elsewhere and the placement of _those_ secrets in the wrong hands would have severe consequences. Mycroft had an inkling that this theft was just a practice job, a rehearsal. It wasn’t wise to wait for the gala performance.

In past years it wouldn’t have mattered to him whether the incident occurred on the most generic day of the calendar or on New Year’s Eve. Real-life repercussions aside, such intellectual puzzles delighted Mycroft to no end and there was nothing better than tackling one of them from the comfort of his own home. Feeling his brain sizzle and crack with the strain, followed by the blinding moment of clarity, then that zenith of dizzying elation, and finally the deep contentment. It was simply incomparable.

Correction. It _had_ been incomparable. But now there was Greg Lestrade in Mycroft’s world and suddenly everything had to be re-addressed and rearranged around him. Greg had been a factor before, of course, while they were still awkward acquaintances who spent far too little time in each other’s company and far too much time glancing furtively at each other’s lips. But Monday three weeks ago Greg had finally become Mycroft’s…

Hmm. “Beloved” was the most preposterous term to describe DI Lestrade, but in view of their relationship it might just be the most accurate one. Mycroft simply couldn’t have a _boyfriend_ at his age. It would have been like having a goldfish and calling it Tinker Bell. Greg wasn’t his lover, either, because they hadn’t yet…consummated their union. “Partner” was an inaccurate term as well, since it implied some longevity to the relationship, and although Mycroft hoped for that, it still wasn’t a fact.

There had been a fumbling kiss at the start of the whole affair, with Greg almost missing Mycroft’s mouth. They had confessed their mutual attraction and interest—maybe not in so many words, but it was clear enough for all parties concerned— and the last three weeks had been the happiest in Mycroft’s adult life. He had thought about Greg every single minute: planned dinners, pondered gifts, fantasised about all sorts of activities they could do together. They had talked on the phone every day and neither of them seemed to think it was too often. They had seen each other whenever they’d both had a spare moment and neither of them seemed to think it was too fast. During the second week they started freeing up time for each other as they went along and this week they were already making their plans for the following day, each considering the other’s schedule.

There’d been a lot more kissing. Well, Mycroft suspected that that foul-mouthed creature, the teenager of today, would have called some of Mycroft ‘s and Greg’s kissing “filthy snogging”. Of course, there was also the panting, the messing of the hair, the skimming of fingers over sensitive areas…

Yes, Greg was his beloved, no doubt about that. But finding the closest term to define him didn’t change the fact that Mycroft had to send his beloved away on New Year’s Eve. They had been really looking forward to spending it together, had planned going out to watch the fireworks, like normal people. Mycroft knew that over the years they had both stored loneliness deep in their bones until its weight physically slowed them down. This, tonight, would have been a good step towards melting some of it away. But it wasn’t to be. Mycroft never worked efficiently even with meaningless other people in the immediate vicinity, but Greg in particular was just too massive a distraction.

It was to Greg’s credit that he hadn’t gone into a tantrum when Mycroft opened the front door earlier and delivered his change of priorities to his clean-shaven, devastatingly handsome, glowing face. Mycroft hadn’t _really_ expected a tantrum, not in the traditional sense. But some offence being taken, perhaps, and expressed through storming off, or bickering, or at least sullen silence.

Of course Mycroft would expect that. When one neglected one’s personal life so thoroughly, one’s template for the behaviour of an adult male became that of the only person with whom one had a close relationship—in this case, one’s younger brother.

This adult male here, however, didn’t sulk or throw his toys out of the pram. Greg took being disappo—To hell with it, being _shunned_ , in perfect stride. Only his face had dropped and his eyes withdrawn; Mycroft flinched inwardly at the memory. But otherwise Greg had nodded after Mycroft’s apology and only asked if he could come in for a quick coffee. “I’ve not seen you since the other night,” he said, not elaborating further. Mycroft felt as if a thick drop of hot wax had landed right over the tender skin on his navel, both recoiling with a fresh surge of guilt and feeling buoyant that Greg should miss him so much.

Now the coffee had been drunk in somewhat oppressive silence. Mycroft couldn’t talk about his job and Greg was understandably subdued. There was little to no touching at all. It was scary how only a few weeks could modify someone’s defaults around another person to such an extent—Mycroft was physically aching to reach across and brush Greg’s fingers or bury his nose in the hair behind his ear. He didn’t feel he had the right to, though, not when he was such a—Well, he could call himself expletives that would make the uncensored mouth of the aforementioned teenager shut with a bang, but to what end? He better used his mind to get on with his wretched job, never mind his vehement reluctance to do so.

He lifted his eyes to Greg to seek a delicate way to send him away and realized it wasn’t his job that was wretched. Mycroft was.

Greg got up and walked to Mycroft’s new super thin flat-screen TV—the one Mycroft ordered when he found out Greg enjoyed watching rugby on a big screen, but “in peace and quiet, not always in the pub”. He observed Greg take in the sleek black surface, then extend his hand to touch the frame gingerly. Mycroft’s heart contracted with affection, before it filled with lead as if bullets had been emptied into it. He took a cold breath to open his mouth and cast Greg away.

“It’s a great TV,” Greg said at that moment. “And it doesn’t even look that big in the room, although it’s massive.” He turned to Mycroft and smiled, his teeth flashing for a second. “Your Christmas present for yourself?”

Mycroft just couldn’t, he couldn’t. He was fighting too many battles with himself. One was whether to tell the truth: “No, my present for _you_. Just like anything else you’d only care to mention.” He also battled the urge to get up, walk around the table, reach Greg, and plaster himself over his back like a giant human rash that could never be treated.

He said nothing—some battles you lost. Yet some battles you won. He did get up and was one step away from Greg when Greg moved closer to the TV and ran his finger along the side of the screen.

“You haven’t peeled off the protection cover yet,” he said, leaning in closer still. “Even the screen’s still got it. Have you even watched anything—” Greg turned abruptly to Mycroft, startled by Mycroft’s sharp, audible intake of breath. “Are you all right? Mycroft?”

Mycroft was just able to stare at him almost…wildly by his standards, while his brain sizzled and cracked, but not with the strain. There was no strain. There was an insight, instead! Mycroft had a brilliant insight and all thanks to this glorious man, who managed to be good for Mycroft even when he talked the most pointless rubbish!

Mycroft tried to speak but found his throat painfully dry. “Excuse me,” he whispered harshly. He was already whipping his phone out as he reached the mini-bar. A few gulps of water, a few buttons pressed—and he was speaking in his usual dulcet tones.

“It’s me. Have someone dig out the Massachusetts Project that had the Japanese professor on board. Look at the microscopic protection foil they designed, the ultra-thin one. Then find Dr. Plaxton and show the papers to her—she’ll know what to do next. The voice recognition software is still problematic but that can wait. Good evening.” Mycroft put the phone in his pocket, breathless, and turned to Greg.

Greg watched him with his mouth slightly ajar. He must have realized it, because he closed it hastily and put his hands in his trousers pockets, nonchalant and attempting to look less like a farm animal. He seemed to ready himself to comment but Mycroft slid across to him and resumed his plastering strategy, only at Greg’s front. He thought the mouth was a particularly auspicious place to start.

Greg responded enthusiastically, burying his freed hand in Mycroft’s hair while his other grabbed Mycroft’s arm and squeezed. Mycroft suppressed the urge to bite on Greg’s bottom lip, tore himself away with effort and breathed against Greg’s mouth. “Plans have changed again.”

Greg pulled away, too, eyes like big dark caves that were gradually illuminated by distant torches. “Really?” he said.

“Oh, yes,” Mycroft purred. “Really. My work is done. Thanks to you, if I may add. Your comment about the protection cover on the TV was most serendipitous.”

“Okay,” Greg dragged, unfazed, pulling Mycroft closer. “I’m very glad to have been of help. Does this mean New Year’s is back on?” He lightly kissed Mycroft’s lips. His other hand was moving up and down Mycroft’s back, giving Mycroft’s spinal cord permission for full capitulation.

“Yes,” Mycroft managed to say. “We can go out.”

Greg’s eyes shone and he brought his mouth close, then, lips barely touching Mycroft’s, spoke. “ _My_ plans have changed, though. I kind of want to stay in now.”

Mycroft gulped and tried to say something but Greg was kissing—no, _snogging_ Mycroft again, his tongue purposefully fucking Mycroft’s mouth. Mycroft’s hands were roaming, squeezing; he felt himself grow hard, so hard, so _good_ …

He managed to tear himself away. “No, wait.”

Greg pulled away instantly. He was quite a sight—Mycroft had evidently grabbed his hair because it was now sticking out on all sides. Greg’s eyes were hooded and black; his cheeks were flushed—his entire face was.

“Not here,” Mycroft said simply. “Bedroom, now.”

***

 _The way Mycroft touches him makes Greg want to bind his own wrists and curl down at Mycroft’s feet. Somewhere in the far corners of his mind there’s the memory of touching himself, but Greg’s utilitarian fist is a shamed, pathetic cousin of the assured, greedy, loving wrap of Mycroft’s fingers around his length. Around both of their lengths—Greg can feel the underside of Mycroft’s cock rubbing against his own. He can feel the head occasionally dragging against the rim of Greg’s and there isn’t a more erotic feeling in the world, there can’t be, this, this—No, watching Mycroft’s face while he’s doing it, the fine, mocking line of his lips unravelled in a sensual slack, his blue eyes gone black…Greg doesn’t get scared easily but Mycroft’s eyes make him hush, yet also drive him to pump Mycroft’s hand harder—More, come here, harder, Mycroft, please—Greg reins himself in, unwilling to seem pushy, scared to demand, to anger Mycroft, but Mycroft only moans through his clenched jaw and buries one hand deeper into Greg’s hair, pulls him closer, presses their foreheads together as he readjusts his hold. Sleeker and hotter and tighter, oh God, and then Mycroft meets Greg’s drooping mouth, slurps Greg’s mumbled profanities; Mycroft’s tongue is wide and eager, in synchrony with his merciless fist, and Greg is panting and thrusting in his own perfect rhythm, mindless and spiralling, until his cradling palm feels the clench of Mycroft’s buttocks signal permission, and oh_ fuck—

***

Curious how little Mycroft was put off by the lurking of bodily fluids and the mess of sheets—obviously, the person next to him wasn’t the only thing about which his defaults had drastically changed. Mycroft could see himself liking the feel soon enough. Lackadaisical, he barely turned his head to the right and waited for Greg to do the rest: shuffle, strain his neck, reach—then kiss Mycroft’s relaxed mouth. Not only did Greg do it, but he managed to tuck his arm under Mycroft’s neck and, with minimum exertion on Mycroft’s part, roll him so that his nose was gently squashed against Greg’s throat. Mycroft closed his eyes.

They laid silent for a few moments then Greg spoke.

“If you need to work other times, I can just be in another room, doing my own thing.”

Mycroft’s eyes opened. He lightly pursed his lips—the brush against Greg’s skin was a totally unplanned, pleasant side-effect. Relationship diplomacy required a circumspect response…

“It’ll be hard to think when you are near.”

But it was quite wonderful to be able to speak plainly and to the point without superfluous decoration or hidden meanings. Sex and trust were quite the liberating combination, it seemed.

“Yes, but only for now,” Greg pointed out. His voice had started dragging even more now that he was post-orgasmic, and Mycroft shivered at the sound and at the throb of the flesh at Greg’s throat. Greg continued, “Once we get past the first stage, we’ll be able to spend time around each other without, you know…wanting to be in bed all the time.”

Mycroft tried to consider that but sadly not much of his glorious mind was at his disposal to dissect the idea. Or, indeed, to go beyond the image of them in bed. God, and they hadn’t even _left_ the bed this time. Mycroft closed his eyes again, resigned.

“It would be prudent to give it a year,” he said.

**Author's Note:**

> Beta by the fantastic [](http://disastrolabe.livejournal.com/profile)[**disastrolabe**](http://disastrolabe.livejournal.com/). Written for alina_kotik. Original entry at my Livejournal [over here](http://stardust-made.livejournal.com/43205.html#cutid1).


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